


Abrasion

by notquitecandid



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Angst, Anxiety, F/M, Heavy Angst, Identity Issues, Loneliness, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rough Sex, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:49:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquitecandid/pseuds/notquitecandid
Summary: In sudden, rare displays of mirth, her Master would quip that where Neyo was the calm; Bacara was the storm. She didn’t believe him, it was cliché and far too simplistic - in fact, she’d been a bit disappointed in Master Mundi. He was often so eloquent and so well versed; his lessons required translation into more accessible Basic more often than not, and having him speak so artlessly, with such a dated phrase was despairingly lacklustre.He was right though.Of course he was, Master Mundi is always right.
Relationships: CC-1138 | Bacara/Original Female Character(s), CC-1138 | Bacara/Reader
Kudos: 7





	Abrasion

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, so this is the start of my Bacara fic, it’s entirely OC central so apologies if that’s not your thing. I have made an effort to make the OC as vague as possible if people prefer reader fics however, parts of her personality development are essential to the story (she may not be too likeable at the beginning) so I’ve probably failed. 
> 
> This fic is going to be very different from BARC and Precious in that the humour and fluff will be minimal. True to the little we see of Bacara’s character, it’s gonna be harsh and pretty angsty. That being said, probably won’t update this too often until BARC is done as I’ll just end up burnt out and sad. 
> 
> Warnings: Angst, Identity Crisis, Anxiety, Confusion, Loneliness, Aggression. 
> 
> Words: 2,823
> 
> P.S. I have taken many liberties with the way the force works XD.

_19 BBY_

In sudden, rare displays of mirth, her Master would quip that where Neyo was the calm; Bacara was the storm. She didn’t believe him, it was cliché and far too simplistic - in fact, she’d been a bit disappointed in Master Mundi. He was often so eloquent and so well versed; his lessons required translation into more accessible _Basic_ more often than not, and having him speak so artlessly, with such a dated phrase was despairingly lacklustre. 

He was right though. 

_Of course he was, Master Mundi is always right._

Nalani forced herself to admit that, if not a bit begrudgedly, even in her own head. Their most recent campaign, a fairly disastrous siege on Aargonar, had accomplished nought but sand in places where there should never be sand, and an entire med bay full of wounded Marines. The men - _her_ men she corrected, weren’t hurt too badly; most of the wounds were superficial with a break or fracture here and there but, _force above_ , they didn’t half pout and grumble. The entire Corps was capable of descending into a playpen of whiney preteens the absolute second she suggested bedrest.

The 91st had arrived not too long ago, and soon she’d need to brief Commander Neyo and Master Allie before the Recon’s shipped out to tidy up the mess the Nova’s had left. Neyo’s men would soon be cementing a base, chasing up stragglers - whatever it is they did, it wasn’t her concern. Glancing up from the leg she had just set, its owner squeezing out a barely coherent thanks through a clenched face drenched in cold sweat, she observed the reunion between the two Marshal Commanders. 

Looking at both helmet-less men, their arms clasped about each other’s shoulder’s as they spoke, one with barren eyes and the other with thunder radiating from his glare; her master’s words rang true. Mostly.

Neyo may be calm, but he didn’t exude calm - he made her feel anything but calm. He was empty, there was no other way to phrase it; there was hardly an aura for her to interpret. She tried to focus on it, to locate it however, the waves were too murky and eventually she began to feel a tingling at her temples; a warning of a sure migraine. Whatever Neyo’s aura was, it did not want to be found. It was almost like looking through a fog, there was definitely some colour on the other side but, it was so obscured, so impenetrable that her eyes soon burned against the blinding white mask and she was forced to turn away - both in the force _and_ in reality.

Bacara’s aura was stronger, impossible to ignore and deafeningly fierce. It was massive, hot, dark and cold all at once. It was full of power and obtrusive energy, she was still unused to it. The first time she’d seen him in combat, she’d been completely winded by the feral force and lack of control; it was everything she had been taught not to be.

At times, Bacara’s aura was terrifying. Even in briefings where they would stand side by side - both equally composed and rigid, his energy would roll off his shoulders in waves. His mere presence was entirely too prognathous, often powerful enough that she had to fight a shudder when he moved.

Although, to say she disliked Bacara was unfair; she hadn’t known him long enough to form an opinion - though it irked her to no end that he out-ranked her. As a Padawan, she’d been somewhat excited by her new title of Commander when assigned to Master Mundi, but oh no - he just _had_ to have a _Marshal_ Commander didn’t he? She didn’t think less of Bacara for being a clone - absolutely not, and she didn’t think as a Jedi she should be in charge. However, it was hard to lead men when there was another person above you, another person they evidently respected more. Bacara was strong, capable, disciplined yet, the harsh brutality of his actions on the battle field were _soo_ …un-Jedi. Even to Nalani, that sounded judgemental but, she’d be lying to say she didn’t shrink internally from his ferociousness.

However, her Master trusted him - _respected_ him and she trusted her Master. She also respected her Master; cared for him, even though he could be as confusing as sin and was sonorously pessimistic in every stretch.

It had only been several months since she’d been assigned to Master Ki-Adi Mundi, her previous Master simply insisted that “ _it was time_.”

That was it. All she got. Seriously. Okay, maybe not, Nalani knew there was more to it; at age nineteen her trials were nearing - nevertheless, some warning would have been appreciated. She’d never intended for war, well no Jedi had truthfully but, she’d chosen a life of scholarly pursuit; she was a Consular, a healer. 

Nalani Mahoe had been brought to the temple by Master Tiin, not that she was old enough to remember it of course but, still he’d found her; _saved_ her. Master Tiin had apparently been demonstrating star-fighter manoeuvres to a flock of younglings and sensed her force signature below, even through her infancy. Ever curious, he’d investigated and there she was. Lying, barely swaddled and wailing through tiny lungs within a slaver camp - a female Zeltron; cheeks chubby with a toddler’s innocence and worth a small fortune on any black market. 

Her saviour, Master Tiin may have been, though he could never save her from the stigma of race. Zeltron’s, if you asked any collection, were the epitome of sloth, gluttony and hedonism. Once a very revered text in the archives described them as “ _worse Twi’leks,_ ” though Knight Secura quickly saw to it’s removal from the building. 

Nonetheless, she grew up amongst the whispers of her fellow younglings, most of whom would shy from her. Jedi or not, isolation was an extremely unattractive offer but, her attempts at friendship in those early days often fell short. Her fellow learners would look away - assuming that her smile came accompanied with manipulations of their pheromones. For the record, she genuinely couldn’t do that, either the texts had made superstitious belief to be fact or she was a failure to her race. She wanted it to be the second, she wanted to be different. 

Therefore, Nalani hid, when her fellow students rushed to the training rooms and grabbed their dull, dummy sabres for extra combat practice - Nalani would read. Studying healing meant she could keep her head down, subvert the fictional tropes of her race; proving her intelligence and proving her worth. Perhaps, that was why Nalani respected Knight Secura so much; as a Twi’lek she faced her own stigmas yet, she excelled at combat and defied anyone who would dare question her proficiency. She even lead the Star Corps as a general, and she didn’t even hold the rank of Master yet; she was phenomenal. 

Despite her efforts, the call of the duelist beckoned Nalani like a bear to honey; never feeling so _alive_ as she did when wielding her blade. A proficient student of _Makashi_ , she could twirl through exercises with the finesse of a ballerina - her mind always so clear and focused when faced with an opponent. She _hated_ it. 

She especially despised the voyeurism of it, she felt like just another self-aggrandising, braggart Zeltron. 

_No! She wouldn’t be that._ _Couldn’t._

Forcibly, Nalani characterised herself into a sphere of composure and serenity, she convinced herself that studying healing is what she was meant to do - what she _wanted_ to do. 

Master Che, it seemed, was less easily fooled. 

Master Che had suggested that Nalani experience the war first hand before facing her trials, be absolutely sure that she was on the right path and gathering all the components necessary to cement her future. Master Mundi saw things less whimsically, he believed that Nalani’s path was already there; chosen for her by the _force._

He was right again, at the crossroads of her destiny she genuinely believed that she could take this one experience then run straight back to the temple yet, war clung to her like smoke on curtains. It pulled her in and pushed her deeper down until their was no room for air yet, she still breathed. The path of the Guardian fuelled her, sustained her. Temptress. 

Already, the dazzling jade of her lightsabre was becoming marred by flecks of cerulean; its glow casting turquoise shadows in the darkness. Her Master called her paranoid - no, that wasn’t fair. He calmed her down, quelled her panicked tantrum and gently guided her to rationalism. He’d explained her sabre had always been this way, the colour only noticeable to her now as her path cleared in her own mind. However, to Nalani - only on the cusp of knighthood, his words could only feel like condescending disbelief. He saw the force in black and white, her life was a mere facet of that - a predestined set of events and any attempts to change that would be a futility. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ understand. 

Ki-Adi Mundi _was_ a Guardian, no matter how suddenly this war had been thrust upon him too, he was prepared for it. He was one with the _force_ and the _force_ with him; in combat he was the perfect strike to the heart of any siege. Nalani wasn’t ready for war, still isn’t but, apparently the force was. Nothing made sense anymore. 

Master Che, a force to be reckoned with herself and as scalding as a kettle, still made sure to emphasise the presence of compassion in their work. To heal, to make one whole, the healer must truly want it; the facilitating of their wellbeing becoming their own. There was no compassion in the Nova Corps. The Marines were hardened, abrasive, carried by a mantra of duty before all else and those considered weak would soon be transferred out; left behind. Perfectly detached. 

Everything she knew, or thought she knew, was crumbling to reveal a new path; one that felt unnaturally natural. 

Yeah, it made _her_ head spin too. 

_Trust in the force._

_Let it guide you._

Her own mantra halted as Bacara asked Neyo a question - something about BARCs - new components - engineers - and, so suddenly, so subtle that she almost missed it; colour. The fog of Neyo’s aura cracked, a sliver of purple? No, lilac, thinner than the softest petals she’d seen in the temple garden, seeped through the chill. The venation wrapped around Neyo’s chest in a protective manner, it was beautiful and foreign; comforting and invading. It was so pale that she had to wonder if even Neyo knew what it was. It was alien, odd enough to be unwelcome despite it’s innocence; even if it was sustaining his heartbeat now. It was too intimate, personal but, she couldn’t look away; unwillingly transfixed in horror. 

“You’re distracted, young one.” Master Mundi’s soft voice echoed from behind her, snapping her back to the visible world. 

“I feel lost, Master.” She admitted glumly, there was no sense in hiding anything from him, he’d know and she didn’t want to hurt him by shutting him out - if either were even possible. 

_Anger isn’t the way_. 

It isn’t. She knows this. He’s a model Jedi, his race as rare as hers, he may be reserved but, she shouldn’t cast him as unsympathetic. “Sorry, Master.” Nalani quickly added. 

“Why are you sorry?” Her Master probed, an amused lilt in his tone revealing that he knew exactly why.

She ignored him, returning to the wounded soldier in front of her and handing him a cap of pain meds with instructions of rest, he was out cold the moment his head touched the granite-like GAR issue pillow. 

“Your path is clear to me, I also believe it is clear to you.” Master Mundi continued, completely undeterred by her standoffish behaviour. “Why must you fight it so?”

He did know. He knew _exactly_ why; it wasn’t her path, she didn’t want it. 

“I…we-we’re not warriors; we’re peacekeepers, Master.” Her voice cracked, damnit - she wasn’t weak! “Why are we here?” She asked, her violet gaze meeting his through the unruly indigo bangs escaping her headband. 

“So often one and the same.” He mused, more to himself than as an answer, before addressing her question directly. “The _force_ willed it.” Her Master finished, not dismissing her distress but, doing little to relieve it. His graceful, sure voice was soothing however, it’s effects were countered by his flippant phrasing. 

They’d had this conversation many, many times; her refusal to accept her path. No amount of shrewdness could save her from her master’s careful observations, Nalani’s face darkened - not with anger but, with bleak shadows of disappointment which clouded her magenta skin. 

“Walk with me. We should meditate.” Master offered, already turning away to glide briskly to the training room. The passed several Marine’s on the way, the polished, slate _durasteel_ halls ablaze with left over adrenalin following their skirmish. Each soldier respectfully saluted, to which both Jedis would politely acknowledge with small gestures. She did appreciate her men, trusted and valued them but, they represented far too much of this war for her to ever seek their company. 

The training room was equally abuzz with bodies and pent-up energy. The clones, whom had ceased their sparring on her and her Master’s entrance, soon returned to throwing each other like rag dolls against crash mats at Mundi’s polite dismissal. The booming echo of some poor trooper’s back slapping against the sweat slicked surface, as Commander Jet literally launched him across the room, deafening her. 

Her Master chuckled lightly at her expression, the men’s laughter as they trained obscuring it, at least they were having fun she supposed. Master Mundi enjoyed meditating here, he would insist it was a good way to learn focus; blocking out your surroundings. 

They sat to the side, more to keep the floor clear for the men than to marginalise themselves. Posture straight, legs crossed, eyes closed and breathing even. Three beats. Then, two. Then, there was just themselves and the force. 

Nalani would always picture Zeltros as she meditated, most Jedi have a safe space and this was hers. Even in her mind, she was unable to escape her origins - she’d never been to Zeltros but, the images she’d conjured were too exquisite to resist. Hot, dense, air - so humid that it glistened in waves of satin and caressed her ankles as she explored the tropics. The sounds of bodies and mats became waterfalls, masking reality further, as stale sweat turned to dew droplets within her jungle. The jungle in which she never wondered too far, bare feet treading cautiously over warm pink sand, never wanting to explore the darkest shades of her desires and wants. 

“You hide so much, repression is not healthy young one.” Her Master’s voice broke through, the image wavered but resisted falling, his voice but a whisper in the breeze. He couldn’t see her jungle, not unless she let him, though he could feel her _force signature’s_ tiptoeinghesitation.

Immediately defensive, Nalani prepared a retort. “But - we’re…”

“We’re taught to control our emotions, not shun them.” Her Master corrected before she could finish.“Expression is a gift you can’t cast aside, your instincts are the _force;_ let them guide you.” He finalised. 

“I am trying.” She insisted, facing an emerald shadow guarded by a cluster of jade and teal flora. Mentally, she gritted her teeth, already prepared for the rebuff for using the word _try_. 

“You are not trying. Tell me, why is it that you feel so wrong just from being here?” _Stars above_ , he didn’t normally pry so insistently - normally there would be _a stop trying and start doing_ rant and that would be it. 

“I’m a healer.” She supplied bluntly, not bothering to mask her sarcasm since he knew the answer already. 

“True.” He chuckled. “But, not the answer.” 

_Has he been taking lessons from Master Yoda or something?_

Exhaling through her nostrils, Nalani admitted the truth aloud. It was a truth he knew fine well but, one she’d yet to speak to him. “Because I want it.” Her voice should have croaked, it should have torn and scraped, the words crushing her vocal cords on the way out and yet, they soothed her throat and drifted off of her tongue with the gentlest clarity. She felt sick.

“And it is your path.” Her Master decreed.

The wind in her jungle stilled. A firm ray of amber sun severed the cracks in the leafy roof, its edges clear enough that they seemed sharp to the touch. It settled on the very edge of the same dull, emerald shadow, casting the very corners viridian; a fleck of azure breaking through the palate. 

Nalani turned away. 


End file.
